Purple Daze (3 page)

 

“How long? Not long, because ‘no lie can live forever.'”

 

—Public speech delivered by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., March 25, 1965 at the steps of the State Capitol, Montgomery, Alabama

I used to think about setting up
Daddy with Ms. Hawes, then
Bubba and I visited him last weekend,
first time in months.

 

1:30 a.m.

 

Cops gave him a lift from the hospital.
Frankenstein
, a million stitches holding
his brains in.

 

Head-on with a power pole.

 

His girlfriend was pissed, locked herself
in the bedroom. Daddy passed out on the
couch, still loaded. Blood seeping through
gauze bandages.

 

Me and Bubba stayed up all night
watching his chest rise and fall,
wondering if he'd make it till breakfast.

Mom listened,
held me,

 

wiped my nose,
kissed my tears.

 

“It's not your fault.
It's not your fault.
It's not your fault.”

 

Her voice warm
as my wound.

The TV is full of stuff about rights.
Civil Rights. Employees' Rights.
Black Rights. Women's Rights.

 

Let's say I don't know the Girls' VP
went through my locker during Social Studies
while we watched news clips of Vietnam,
sickened by body bags.

 

Does that make it right?

“Some 400 young men, born into an America that is bursting with opportunity and promise, have ended their lives, on Viet-Nam's steaming soil....

 

“We fight because we must fight if we are to live in a world where every country can shape its own destiny. And only in such a world will our own freedom be finally secure....

 

“Over this war—and all Asia—is another reality: the deepening shadow of Communist China. The rulers in Hanoi are urged on by Peking. This is a regime which has destroyed freedom in Tibet, which has attacked India, and has been condemned by the United Nations for aggression in Korea....

 

“These countries of Southeast Asia are homes for millions of impoverished people. Each day these people rise at dawn and struggle through until the night to wrestle existence from the soil. They are often wracked by disease, plagued by hunger, and death comes at the early age of 40. ...

 

“We must stay in Southeast Asia—as we did in Europe—in the words of the Bible: ‘Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further. ...'”

 

—Speech at Johns Hopkins University, April 7, 1965

2 a.m.

 

Blankets tucked around pillows.
Sen-Sens in my pocket.
Frosted lipstick, nude.

 

I open the window,
unlatch the screen,
crawl over the sill,
my heart a free-for-all.

 

The Blue Bomb is parked at the
top of the street. Brake released,
it rolls down.

 

Giggles spill out:
Ziggy and Mickey
Nancy and Phil
Me and Don

 

Mick pops the clutch.

 

Away we go.

3:15 a.m.

 

Stopped at a red light.

 

Mickey yells, “Chinese fire drill!”

 

Mick, Don, and Phil tear around the
Bomb, climbing in on the passenger's side.
Now Ziggy's behind the wheel, trying
to steer with her boobs.

 

We fishtail through an intersection
of neon liquor stores, wrought iron
windows.

 

“Isn't Skid Row near here?” Ziggy says
while Phil nibbles my neck.

 

Mickey crushes his beer can,
“Fuckin' A!”

3:25 a.m.

 

Some scuzz shouts from a strip joint,
“Shake it—Don't break it!”

 

Cheryl clings to Don, scared, sorry she
came along. I cut lose with a shimmy,
forgetting Mickey has unhooked my bra.

 

Mick sneaks a peek in the door
under a flashing sign:

 

TOPLESS DANCERS
GLOW-IN-THE-DARK-TITS

 

Beer spills from a paper bag, while
Mick shoots the shit with a bouncer,
trying to convince him he's 21.

 

I bet those dancers make more than
the 50-cents an hour I get babysitting
psycho kid.

 

“Shake it, baby!”

4:10 a.m.

 

Phil fumbles for my zipper.
I grab his hand,
no
.
My knees pressed together,
no
.

 

It's not like I worry about burning
in hell, like some goody-two-shoes.

 

It's not like I want to save myself for
my husband; I already know who he is,
Phil
.

 

I imagine the not-you-too look on my
mom's face if another rabbit dies. When
hers died she got expelled from high school
and a shotgun wedding that keeps misfiring.

4:40 a.m.

 

I climb in, smelling like cigarettes
and beer. Hickey on my neck,
no doubt.

 

My knee bumps the dinner bell
tied to the shade. The hall light
flicks on.

 

The first antiwar demonstration to receive
front-page exposure from the
New York Times
,
planned by an unknown organization,
Students for a Democratic Society.

 

Twenty-five thousand—beards, blue jeans,
ivy tweeds, the occasional clerical collar
marched on Washington, DC, singing.

 

Thousands bore antiwar signs:

 

 

—March on Washington, DC on April 17, 1965

In elementary school we memorized
“America the Beautiful” for Open House.

 

I sat in the top row of seats in the music room,
proud I knew all eight stanzas. After rehearsal,
our teacher called me outside, scolded me for
showing my underpants.

 

“From now on you will sit on the bottom tier
and cross your ankles like a proper young lady.”

 

A helicopter hovered overhead. I thought,
Channel 7 is here to report I wore my
days-of-the-week underwear out of order.

Mom doesn't have many rules:

 

no boys in the house,
no cutting school,
no sneaking out at night.

 

I feel
bad,
sad,

 

but not because I got caught.

 

I want
to brush
Mom's hair
in front of the TV
and laugh
at Lucy
and Ethel.

I'm just like you,
dear old dad.

 

No kids for me though. Why
put them through this shit?

 

My wallet's got fake IDs,
girls' phone numbers,
rubbers.

 

I'm set for anything!

 

Aren't you proud?

Mickey and Ziggy stagger out of her
parents' bedroom. She's in cotton undies,
he's in skivvies. They're drunk as skunks.

 

He's holding her by the ankles,
36-D cups tied around his head,
a bra bandit.

 

She's upside down,
walking on her hands,
laughing like crazy.

 

I've seen them do this before
when the rubber breaks.
God knows why?
Bet she couldn't get pregnant
if she tried.

Feet in the air,
underpants up my crack,
boobs bouncing,

 

fat-tub-of-lard-upside-down.

 

If I got pregnant,
I wouldn't care
what anyone said.

 

If I got pregnant, Mickey and I
would spend the rest of our lives
loving our baby.

 

Mick has no class,
treats Ziggy like trash.

 

I don't know why she
puts (out) up with it (him).

Can you open your room during lunch period, so we have a decent place to sit? (Not enough tables and chairs in the cafeteria.) I'd make sure no one put stinky food in your wastebasket or otherwise messed up the opportunity.

 

(Thanks for not making us sign our name)

 

Your outfits are quite hep for an English teacher. But, Ms. Hawes, I think you should try nude lipstick instead of pink. I also suggest a different eye shadow. Turquoise?

Your Fan

 

Who do you think you're kidding with this suggestion box crap? Teachers don't care what we think!

No Dummy

 

I wish you'd put the Hall Pass in a discreet spot so we don't have to raise our hand when we need to use the restroom.

Embarrassed

 

I like it that you read to us even though we're in high school. Okay so that's not a suggestion, but I thought you should know.

The Listener

 

I'd like to suggest that next semester you don't seat us by alphabetical order. I'm tired of the same “D” looking over my shoulder.

Serious Student

 

I'd like to petition that the bells ring closer together. Either that or blow up this dump.

 

Bored-to-Death

 

Sometimes a person is retarded due to circumstantial happenings beyond their control influence, such as missing the bus and having to pedestrian in shoes that crush obstruct their toes. If you have to mark us down (is it a school rule dictorium?) I'd appreciate the occasion to make up points. I don't dismiss book reports if you permiss us elucidation of comics.

 

Always Late

Ziggy can't surprise me, not
since second grade when she
beat up Michael Alan for calling
her Porky Pig.

 

The next day she let him touch her
scabby knee, and he shared graham
crackers and milk with her.

IF YOU HAVE HAD PREVIOUS MILITARY SERVICE, OR ARE NOW A MEMBER OF THE NATIONAL GUARD OR A RESERVE COMPONENT OF THE ARMED FORCES, BRING EVIDENCE WITH YOU. IF YOU WEAR GLASSES, BRING THEM. IF MARRIED, BRING PROOF OF YOUR MARRIAGE. IF YOU HAVE ANY PHYSICAL OR MENTAL CONDITION WHICH, IN YOUR OPINION, MAY DISQUALIFY YOU FOR SERVICE IN THE ARMED FORCES, BRING A PHYSICIAN'S CERTIFICATE DESCRIBING THAT CONDITION, IF NOT ALREADY FURNISHED TO YOUR LOCAL BOARD.

Phil got his draft notice.
I haven't told anyone.

 

MARINES

 

I tried to read it slowly,
but the words came all at once:

 

 

He took me to House of Pancakes.
I couldn't eat my Dutch Baby,
sobbing into his Union 76 shirt,
PHIL stitched over the pocket.

 

He smoked, drank black coffee
while I filled out a job application.

Man, those sneaky VC
fight dirty in Nam,
making a mockery
of U.S. democracy.

 

I'll be a proud
to be among the few,
no better friend, no worse enemy,
first to fight, a gung-ho grunt
in the Marine Corps.

A Bekins van backs up next door as
I drag the sprinkler to a brown spot.

 

I'm guessing my mom told the creep's wife
what happened—and she booted the sex pervert.
I'm hoping she told him he'll never see his daughters
again, when

 

two mattresses are loaded into the van.
Twin headboards. Boxes, taped shut.
Barbie Doll suitcases, black, zippers open.
A pair of perfect faces peer out, plastic grins.

 

The hard-packed dirt beneath the brittle
grass sucks up water, trying to breathe.

News time.

 

Walter Cronkite
reels a five-minute clip:

 

“Godless communism is why
we launch lethal weapons.”

 

For centuries peasants in South Vietnam accepted living in poverty because they believed it a punishment for crimes committed by their ancestors.

 

The National Liberation Front (NLF) seek to educate them in economics by explaining that 50% of the farmland is owned by less than 3% of the population. The NLF gains additional support by following strict directives: